Love Is for Losers Read online

  It’s a bank holiday today, so the shop was only open from eleven until four thirty, and of course people were buying Easter cards until four thirty.

  They must be hand delivering.

  I honestly never realized Easter cards were even a thing.

  Mum sent an email this morning to say she’s okay and that all she wants for Easter is to have a hot bath and a glass of wine.

  I’m not being funny, but she could have that every day, so I’ve got zero sympathy for her.

  I took a picture of the kittens and sent it to her, but it’s shit because it’s too dark, and the kittens look more like furballs than kittens.

  Emma came home with us after work, and we made pizza.

  Kate wasn’t as crazy as usual at dinner (i.e., not talking about sex or vaginas or James in order to embarrass me in front of others), which makes me think that she knows something about Emma I don’t. I really hate that: When you know that you don’t know something.

  The cats are still under the wardrobe, and so Emma had to crawl underneath. The kittens were making strange gargling noises, and Emma was just like: “This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Kate was like: “Maybe you should adopt one. Or four.”

  Kate then agreed to setting up an online account to sell the Star Wars poster, but apparently she has to have it signed off with her line manager first. She was also like: “If we bother with this, I think we need to try harder to locate novelty items and designer clothes in the future.”

  Emma and I are going to take charge because, let’s face it, Pat would’ve probably binned the poster, and she probably doesn’t even know who Mark Hamill is, even though she’s old and Star Wars is old; Pat’s, like, zero into anything cool. She’s actually zero into anything.

  At nine Kate was like: “Shall I take you home, Emma?” But Emma was like: “No way, I’ll walk, it’s only fifteen minutes.” And then Kate was like: “Phoebe, walk Emma home.”

  No one ever worries about me.

  Emma can’t possibly go home on her own, but Phoebe’s okay to go there and back.

  On her own.

  In South London.

  Even though she’s only fifteen, and Emma’s already sixteen and really doesn’t need a chaperone, because even though she’s very lovely, she’s feisty AF.

  Obviously I didn’t mind. I like Emma a lot. She’s got this laugh she only does occasionally, and it’s proper wicked, and it doesn’t match her face, but when she does it, it’s like someone’s struck a match inside her eyes.

  Back to work tomorrow.

  Emma reckons we should call ourselves the Female Fortune Finders and have our own TV show.

  Saturday, March 31 #ER

  The Female Fortune Finders are on fire.

  We found a twenty-pound note in a donated handbag.

  It was a shit one, too, with a broken strap, and I was just about to chuck it in the rag bin when Emma was like: “Have you checked inside?”

  Now I’m even checking inside trouser pockets, because you really never know.

  The donation of the week this week (apart from the Star Wars poster, obvs) is an orange exercise ball. When we pulled it out of the bin bag, it was mostly deflated, and so Emma tried to blow it up by blowing into the tiny hole, but that didn’t do anything, and then Kate remembered that someone had donated a foot pump once upon a time. It took us, like, an hour to find it, but when the exercise ball was inflated, we took it out for a spacey hop on the shop floor. Emma did three big bounces before she faceplanted in front of the till.

  We were literally dying with laughter, but Kate just shook her head and was like: “And thus concludes this little interlude.” She took the exercise ball away and put it in the window.

  It sold three minutes later, and when the man left with it, Kate was like: “Certain things only have one outcome.”

  Emma: Eternal fun for the whole family?

  Kate: ER, pet. ER.

  Sunday, April 1 #WhenJesusLaidTheChocolateEgg

  Happy Easter.

  I got a giant Easter egg from the designer cats and a selection of small eggs from the kittens.

  Kate’s so strange.

  I felt bad because I didn’t get her anything, but we ended up sharing the giant egg right after breakfast.

  Then we moved the kittens from underneath my wardrobe into the kitten box in the living room.

  They’re not doing much yet, just stalking around making high-pitched squealing noises.

  I reckon we need to sell them ASAP, because people like cute things. Maybe we can put them on eBay?

  I’ve decided Easter is my favorite holiday.

  Kate and I did literally nothing. Then we WhatsApped Mum. We showed her the kittens, and she was all like: “Awwwwww, we can have one, Phoebe, if you like. They’re very cute.”

  When she said “we,” she didn’t mean us, she meant me, because who’s going to end up looking after it? Not her. And then the kitten and I have to live with Kate, and suddenly there’s, like, three cats in this house, and everything will smell of cat piss, and then Kate and I may as well kill ourselves straightaway, because where do you go from there? Besides, I don’t even like cats.

  Monday, April 2 #HouseholdManagement

  Note to self: Never actually get a job in retail, because you’re going to have to always work when everyone else is off.

  Like today, on Easter Monday.

  We made seventy-five pounds, and Kate said that was terrible.

  It was just Emma, Kate, and me today, because Pat insists on “observing Easter” (even though I don’t think anything happened to Jesus on the Monday), James is visiting his family in Kent until tomorrow, Bill and Melanie are still in Marrakesh, and Alex is attending an Easter fund-raiser for which he has baked a Victoria sponge cake, which apparently is actually called a “classic Victoria sandwich.”

  Emma and I found a book called The Woman’s Guide to Cookery and Household Management. We were going to make it the donation of the week, but it’s too good, so we’re keeping it.

  It’s the thickest, heaviest book I’ve ever seen, and it’s proper hilarious. There’s a whole chapter on how to “handle” staff, and one chapter is about how to cook for “invalids,” which basically means cooking for sick people. There are ten pages on how to make different types of soufflé. Having been a woman a hundred years ago must have absolutely sucked.

  What even is a soufflé?

  In other news, we can see the kittens’ distinct coloring now. There’s one tortoiseshell, one gray, and two tabby ones.

  Emma’s coming around as soon as their eyes are open, so we can make them pose for pictures, and then we’ll set up an Instagram account: #catsofinstagram.

  Exciting times ahead.

  Tuesday, April 3 #Passover

  James is back from his Easter break.

  On our way in, Kate was like: “Phoebe. I know you’re beside yourself about James being back, but you really need to calm down.” And then she put on actual lip tint.

  Seriously, she needs to calm down.

  When he got in, he was like: “Hi, Phoebe. Did you have a nice Easter?”

  Me: I don’t believe in Easter. I’m Jewish.

  James: Fair enough. Did you have a nice Passover, then?

  Me: Great, thanks.

  I immediately downloaded the Jewish Festivals app, because quite frankly, I had no idea what James was on about.

  Passover: Commemoration of the Jews’ liberation by God from slavery in ancient Egypt, and their freedom as a nation under the leadership of Moses.

  Apparently you’re not allowed to eat anything that rises. Like bread. Which means I failed Passover this year because, apart from the chocolate egg, I ate toast all day on Sunday.

  When I was taking down the Easter cards in the thrift shop this afternoon, it occurred to me that we had zero Passover cards, and bearing in mind that approximately 263,500 Jews live in the UK, that’s pretty shit.

  Even if 50 percent of th
e Jewish population bought a card at, let’s say £2.99, that would mean the thrift shop card people could make £393,932.50.

  So why aren’t they?

  Also, get this, the millisecond the last Easter card was packed away in its special box that we have to send back for special recycling, this old woman comes into the shop and goes: “Excuse me. Have you got any Easter cards?” I was like: Are you actually kidding me?

  She carried on like: “I always buy them just after Easter for next year.”

  I swear these things only happen because people have too much time on their hands.

  While I was on the shop floor dealing with every weirdo in Wimbledon, James was in the back (alphabetizing the books I had already alphabetized a few weeks ago), hanging out with Emma.

  By the time I returned to the stockroom, they were BFFs, which annoyed me.

  James: Emma, where do you go to school?

  Emma: Wimbledon High.

  James: Do you like it?

  Emma: Yes, it’s okay.

  James: Do you play any sports there?

  Emma: I play hockey.

  I stumbled over my own two feet then, because: Why didn’t I know this?

  I mean, okay, I’ve never asked that question specifically, but I’ve known Emma for a few months now, so why don’t I know that she plays hockey?

  I seriously need to get into the habit of asking better questions.

  Emma must have been like: Oh, wow, James is really interested in my life, and look, that’s indifferent Phoebe over there, dragging a box of Easter cards to the back door.

  10:41 P.M.

  Here’s a list of questions for Emma tomorrow.

  What’s your favorite thing about school?

  What’s your least favorite thing about school?

  Have you by any chance started studying for GCSEs?

  Who’s that boy in your profile picture?

  Wednesday, April 4 #Feminists?

  Epic fail on the question front; I didn’t ask Emma a single one.

  Emma showed James The Woman’s Guide to Cookery and Household Management, and her and him and Kate had a proper laugh over it.

  Is nothing sacred? That’s my and Emma’s thing.

  And then James was all like: “We’ve come such a long way in the last one hundred years when it comes to the role of women.”

  Emma was like: “I know, but there’s a long way to go yet.” And James was all agreeing and talking absolute bollocks about wanting to smash the glass ceiling.

  Normally, when people are being pretentious idiots, Kate would be like: Now, now. Enough of being pretentious idiots. But she just stood there listening to James going on and on, and she was like: Oh, James is so right, James is so wise, everyone should be like James.

  Blech!

  Seriously, when does his uni start again?

  And why can’t he work day shifts at the Goat? I know for a fact they’re open for lunch.

  At dinner Kate said that she’s going to ask him to go on the till more often, because he’s so beautiful, and that the power of delicious biceps shouldn’t be underestimated.

  That’s totally sexualizing him.

  The Woman’s Guide to Cookery and Household Management discussion has taught her nothing.

  Thursday, April 5 #TheNewMessiah

  Yay, Alex is back, so I basically hung out with him all day.

  Everyone else couldn’t get enough of worshipping James, who found a crinkly old book of First World War poetry, and was all like: Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah. Isn’t this profound? And Kate, Emma, and even emotionally void bloody Pat were all like: This is the most profound poem I’ve ever heard. Its profoundness is so profound it literally aches with profundity.

  Come on!

  I sat under the till by Alex’s feet, eating crisps and doing more research into the Star Wars poster just in case we happen to hear back from Kate’s manager at some point in this life and get the go-ahead for putting it on eBay.

  Seriously, I think some people don’t want to make money.

  Alex was like: “You can’t sit under the till all day,” but I was just like: “Watch me.”

  Just before lunch, three hours later, Kate was like: “Has anyone seen Phoebe?” and Alex was like: “Yes. And she thinks poetry’s shit.”

  Me: Do you tell your parents I say words like shit all the time?

  Alex: Why?

  Me: Because you’re my only ally in this place, and I’d hate it if they told you to work somewhere else.

  Alex: No, they’re cool.

  I asked if Alex and Emma and I could go to Sprinkles for our lunch, and Kate said yes, but Emma said she didn’t want to come because, apparently, “We can’t all take lunch at the same time.”

  Why didn’t she just say she wanted to spend time with James?

  At Sprinkles I ordered the Peanut Butter and Jamsplosion, and Alex had Chocolate Extreme.

  Me: Do you think James fancies Kate?

  Alex: I haven’t really thought about it.

  Me: Do you think James fancies Emma?

  Alex: I haven’t really thought about it.

  Me: Do you think Emma fancies James?

  Alex: I haven’t really thought about that, either.

  And then I realized that I’d thought about it way too much, which almost made me want to not finish my lunch.

  PS: People need to calm down about poetry.

  PPS:

  Under the till.

  Listening still.

  But what’s most profound

  Makes no sound.

  Big deal.

  Friday, April 6 #TheBettingBegins

  We got the go-ahead for the Star Wars poster.

  James suggested we should put it in a frame, and then he went out and got a cheapo one from Wilko’s, which made the poster look proper amazing.

  We took a picture and then we uploaded it.

  I suggested starting at £350, and at first Kate was like: “It’s a poster, Phoebe, not a Monet.” But then James reckoned that would be the right price, and suddenly everyone was like: Oh, okay, yes. Three hundred fifty pounds.

  Not two minutes after it went live, ten people were already watching it, and an hour later, someone had offered £375. How amazing is that? So we’ll definitely get £375 for it, but it’s got, like, a whole other week to gather momentum.

  We’ll make so much money.

  Maybe it’ll be known as the movie poster that cured cancer.

  Imagine.

  Today Emma was like: “Are you okay, Phoebe?” and I was like: “Yes, thanks.” And then she went: “How are the kittens? Can we take the pictures yet?”

  I honestly thought she’d forgotten about it, and I was so surprised that she brought it up that I was like: “Er, I think we need to wait awhile yet and allow for their personalities to come through a bit more.”

  What am I even saying?

  That’s such bullshit.

  They’re cats.

  I honestly don’t know why I say the things I say sometimes. It’s like they literally fall out of my mouth without having been through my brain.

  Emma must think I’m completely ridiculous.

  I need to ask her if she has a boyfriend. But she hasn’t asked me, and usually that’s, like, one of the first things people ask.

  Maybe Emma just really isn’t like other people.

  Saturday, April 7 #ThePlotThickens

  So this is what I accidentally/on purpose overheard today:

  Bill: And how are you, my darling?

  Emma: Really well.

  Bill: And Mum and Dad are all right, too?

  Emma: Yes, thanks.

  Bill: You still going to your meeting?

  Emma: Yes, of course.

  Bill: You wonderful woman.

  When I walked back into the stockroom where they were, I felt like such an outsider.

  What meetings? What’s going on with Emma? And why is he calling her “darling” and “wonderful”?

&n
bsp; Is everyone trying to drive me insane?

  11:19 P.M.

  Maybe Emma’s an alcoholic.

  Sunday, April 8 #ToLoseALeg

  Kate reminded me that the other designer cat’s kittens are due later this week, so I may want to keep my door shut.

  This is the full-on designer litter, so they really need to be born in their designer cardboard box (that Kate nicked from the neighbors’ recycling).

  I WhatsApped Mum just now, and she told me about treating a little boy who had lost a leg.

  I wonder what they do with cut-off body parts and dead bodies there. I can’t imagine them having a crematorium at a field hospital. I wonder if it all just gets burned out back.

  I can’t imagine losing a leg.

  And what’s that phrase all about?

  How can you lose a leg?

  You lose your wallet.

  But your leg?

  Monday, April 9 #MidSeasonSale

  The Star Wars poster has reached a whopping £401.

  How totally amazing is that? And we’ve got until Friday, and there’s, like, seventy-eight people still watching it.

  It was a stroke of genius putting it on when people/people’s children are on holiday, because I bet everyone’s just sitting at home, bored, wondering what they can possibly spend money on next.

  Emma and I are getting through donation bags with almost absurd speed now. Turns out we’re a brilliant team. With everything starting to clog up the rails in the stockroom, Kate spontaneously decided we should have a sale. We’re going to do buy one, get one half price on all clothes.

  I spent all day putting signs up.

  Pat thinks it’s a terrible idea (of course).

  She reckons thrift shops should never give in to High Street pressures.

  I disagree, not out of principle or because I hate her, but because it’s better to make three pounds than two: If ten people spend three pounds, we make thirty pounds, but if ten people spend two pounds, we only make twenty pounds.

  It’s not rocket science, Pat.

  Also, Emma and James are literally infuriating.

  James: I used to row at school.

  Emma: Oh, cool.

  James: It was intense. There’s so much pressure. And one day in Sixth Form, I woke up, and I decided I didn’t want to do it anymore.